


Everything You Ever...

by capncrystal



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Canon Rewrite, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, psychicvory, survivory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capncrystal/pseuds/capncrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivory felt it when Cassiopeia broke beneath him, still defiantly belching fire and twisting to throw him clear as she buckled around a building. The sheer mass of her swept away everything in her path, leaving him in an oddly peaceful moonlit clearing. Later, he would realize there were holes in his memory; one minute he was picking himself up and rediscovering how to move so that he could stagger after his dragon, the next he was pinned between Ghislain's solid, warm chest and the entirely different heat of Compassus beneath him. </p>
<p>Set during the events of Steelhands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything You Ever...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/gifts), [luvanderwon (missbysshe)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=luvanderwon+%28missbysshe%29).



> The title is a nod to Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. I have neither regrets nor apologies.
> 
> So Moonix sent me a challenge, a few weeks ago, to write a survivory kiss. I posted the first half of this to Tumblr and then sort of... kept going? This could be in the same universe and their fucking delightful fic Lessons in Flying.

1.

Ivory felt it when Cassiopeia broke beneath him, still defiantly belching fire and twisting to throw him clear as she buckled around a building. The sheer mass of her swept away everything in her path, leaving him in an oddly peaceful moonlit clearing. Later, he would realize there were holes in his memory; one minute he was picking himself up and rediscovering how to move so that he could stagger after his dragon, the next he was pinned between Ghislain's solid, warm chest and the entirely different heat of Compassus beneath him. His legs were stretched on the much wider saddle, and his hands were clutching a leather harness that draped down strangely, connecting- was that Yesfir? He was told, later, that he'd held the guide rope that led a blinded and barely-flying Yesfir back to the kinder side of the Cobalts, where they had eventually run out of fuel.

Ivory spent some of that hazy night making sure Luvander didn't choke on his own blood while Ghislain cared for Balfour, whose wounds Ivory couldn't even look at without retching. Adamo told him in no uncertain terms to stop thinking about it, to deal with what he could, before setting off on his own to find them a way home. Compassus curled her tail around Balfour and Ghislain, resting her wing on her flank to form a cover for them. Yesfir, in her final bit of life before her eyes went dim, did the same for him and Luvander. Proudmouth was no longer moving.

The carriage arrived just before dawn, a civilian thing from the nearest country manor. Adamo was quite alone, which Ivory had no time to be grateful for. (None of them stopped hearing from the pompous asshole for months; he tried to press some manner of lawsuit against Adamo for stealing his carriage. "Requisitioning," Adamo called it once over drinks, and they had a laugh that died off too quickly into hollow silence.)

Balfour was kept at the Rittenhouse, which was just as well as far as Ivory was concerned. Luvander was, too, for a week, and when he was returned to the Airman building it was cleaned to hospital standards. Seeing the common room sparkling clean was difficult on many levels, but the alternative was staying in a hospital ward himself so he found ways of dealing with it. He found, as days crawled by, that he couldn’t approach the rickety old piano in there without feeling bile and horror rise up in his gut, visions of arms that ended at the wrist crowding up in his thoughts. He ignored the diminished rota and let the common room gather up dust again. Maybe the ghosts would find it more to their tastes that way.

Ivory’s own wounds were superficial, though he had to suffer through physicians clucking over him and smearing creams over the burns across his face and chest. He was told they would scar. He didn't much care. Civilians had always marveled at his appearance, now at least they had a reason. Luvander had it worse with a scratched cornea and infection setting in to the deep cuts that ripped him from chin to chest; he’d been standing in the kitchen, one day, nibbling on a scone and braving a painful smile at Ivory, and then he’d gone down like the magicians at the Basquiat, feverish and unable to move. They brought him back to the Rittenhouse and left Ivory alone with Adamo.

Rook came back later, dragged home barely alive in a carriage from a Ke-Han prison. He didn't speak to any of them, and everyone but Thom let him be. Ivory watched Adamo closely after every report from the Ke-Han capital, waiting for him to round up the boys and share a bit of good news the way he’d done just before Rook returned. He learned to read the lines on his chief sergeant’s face that got steadily deeper over time. Without ever sharing a word with the man, Ivory knew that nobody else would be coming home.

 

2.

The statues were erected. There was a ceremony. Nobody joked during it; those who lived donned their ceremonial blues and stood in front of the crowd in Thremedon with contempt on their faces (except Luvander, who could barely stand and was rushed away on a stretcher afterwards, and Balfour, who couldn't feel contempt if he was paid to). They got his name wrong. He let it be, because if he defaced that small corner of the statues he wouldn't stop until he stood in the shattered remains of all of them and he didn't want to get arrested again.

He went home for a while, comforted by his brothers and the family of fluffy white cats they had adopted in his absence. He spent a lot of time in the garden, making an attempt to read the pile of Romans he'd taken from Raphael's trunk. His progress was slow, as he had never been one to read for pleasure, but there were occasional passages he recognized from when Raphael had read aloud to him late at night, when they both still lived. The bittersweet pleasure of each discovery gave him the strength to keep reading.

Occasionally he had to give up everything and hide in bed, ghosts of the dragons and his dead comrades crowding into his head as if they still had physical bodies, scraping the inside of his skull and sending little shockwaves of pain down his nerves. The migraines were awful and lasted for several days each time; the effects kept him bedridden and sore all over for days after that. He wanted to have died with his friends.

Nothing lasts forever, and when Luvander wrote him with an invitation to visit his hat shop (a ridiculous venture, honestly) he packed his things and took one of their horses into town. He didn't return home.

 

3.

Ivory blamed himself a bit for Balfour's quiet refusal to visit; when he was honest with himself, he could admit that he was relieved not to see him.

Three or four nights a week, Ivory played piano for the better class of entertainment in the Amazement and the rest of his time was spent tending his tiny garden or bothering Luvander. He'd made off with the more tasteful decorations Ghislain sent and left Luvander with Martine and a tea set that he couldn’t bring himself to steal. It was genuinely nice, dark turquoise green, cracked and broken and fused together with gold, and it reminded him of Luvander. They took tea once a week, always inside because Ivory still hated looking at the bastionfucking statues that were visible from Luvander's front door.

There were several notes. Ivory hated notes. There were urgent requests from physicians that he receive a checkup, but since Ivory was rarely ill and none of the magicians of the Basquiat had ever had a remedy for his headaches he elected to carry on as he was, without any help from doctors. He also ferociously ignored the note he received in Adamo’s scrunched up and difficult to read handwriting, requesting he attend a meeting. He’d spent enough time taking orders and serving his country, and doing so again without the benefit of having Cassiopeia there to share his heart made him feel like a cat rubbed the wrong way. On the other hand, curiosity was niggling at him, so he met with Luvander on the day following the requested meeting, that being their usual day for tea rather than a special request and Luvander being the sort who would knock down his door if he thought Ivory was avoiding him.

Luvander let him read the letter he was sending to Ghislain- a ridiculous jumble of gossip that was cleverly designed to grab Ghislain's interest without actually saying anything revealing. While Luvander dashed off to make them tea, he added a postscript to it in his own writing. It wasn't much, and the writing was shaky still, but he was rather proud of himself nonetheless both for reaching out to Ghislain and for defacing something of Luvander's. That second thing always cheered him up.

Weeks passed, and this adventure of Luvander’s was sort of slow to build but he did keep Ivory up on the latest gossip. One week he was taking about visiting Balfour at home and discussed at length, with cheerful distaste that barely hid concern, the tiny apartment Balfour was living in. The next week, Balfour had fallen ill and required daily visits with food and medicine. Ivory was enthusiastically invited to join them but he continued to politely decline to visit their youngest friend. Whether out of fairness to Luvander or his own perversely stubborn self-sufficiency, Ivory also refused to mention the nightmare memories of dragonfire and of arms that ended at the wrist. Crowded at the edge of his mind like the onset of a headache was a whisper in Cassiopeia’s vocorder voice, too faint to hear but too loud to ignore.

To distract himself, and to give Luvander what little help he was willing, he stayed at Yesfir for a few hours each day to keep a watchful eye on the shopgirl Luvander had hired so that he could go and care for Balfour. He met with Adamo, too, who pretended not to be disappointed in Ivory while Ivory pretended that Adamo's opinion of him didn't matter anymore. The whole letter business ate at him, though, and while the headaches and nightmares didn’t get worse they also didn’t go away. When Luvander broke with tradition by sending him a note- some ridiculous gossip about students of Adamo’s being sent to purchase hats, could Ivory even imagine?- Ivory finally gave in, scrawled his own note to his employer that he would be taking a few weeks off, and packed an overnight bag to bring to Yesfir.

Balfour joined them soon after, practically blown into the door on a gust of winter wind. Ivory had known Balfour would join them, but no amount of advance warning could have prepared him for the rush of feelings that accompanied Balfour on the cold air. After an awkward moment of silence, Balfour smiled at him- warm, forgiving, and gentle, and Ivory felt something inside him that had been icy for so long he'd grown used to it melt away. As he embraced Balfour, the latter exhaling a surprised little huff against his chest, he wondered how he would manage without that bit of coldness to give him strength. Meanwhile, Luvander made a lot of noise about how sweet they were being, making Balfour blush a lot and Ivory roll his eyes- what was a bit of hugging between old comrades?

Luvander elected to stay in the doorway and keep a lookout for guests both expected and unexpected, and Ivory supposed that some habits from their flying days would never die. He and Balfour decided to play havoc in Luvander’s kitchenette upstairs by raiding the place for tea and snacks. Ivory kept sneaking glances at Balfour, who looked directly at him after putting on the kettle and sighed. "I suppose we ought to get this over with?" He suggested with false cheer, holding up his gloved hands as if for inspection. Ivory flinched back, actually retreating a step before catching himself. "I would rather not," he hissed, looking away. Balfour let his hands fall, an expression of hurt and sorrow crossing his face for a second before settling into the one he'd worn often in the old days- a small and patient smile, given away by the tension around his eyes.

Ivory's heart did something, like his chest was squeezed tight for a moment, and he reached over and ruffled Balfour's dark silky hair. "It's good to see you," he muttered, looking at Balfour's face and carefully ignoring his hands. The younger man startled a bit and even looked indignant, which made Ivory smile. Balfour then, of course, ruined everything by reaching up and brushing too-hard fingers along Ivory’s jaw, where burns crept up his neck and left puckered little scars in shiny, waxy skin. Ivory flinched away again, annoyed, and busied himself with the tin of tea on Luvander’s counter. Balfour took the hint and found a motley collection of mugs and didn’t say anything at all to Ivory for the rest of the afternoon.

They were just settling in with the tea when Adamo's little protégé arrived; Ivory overheard the last snippets of banter about naked peacocks and Adamo's fury and shared an askance look with Balfour. He settled himself on the couch with his mug and didn’t bother to rise for introductions.

The four of them- Balfour, Luvander, Laure, and her nervous fiancé Toverre- settled inside Yesfir. Ivory, who was already settled, remained quiet for most of the conversation, letting Luvander do the thing where his mouth ran away with him. Eventually, Luvander managed to coax the story out of Laure with his usual charm, which was to say that she mostly talked in order to shut him up. At one point, Balfour collided with Laure while reaching for the teapot and had to remove his glove to wipe the tea from his metal hand. Ivory got up before he had to see it and walked into the kitchen, choosing to miss out on the conversation rather than face that tiny bit of dragonmetal crafted into the rough approximation of hands. He had never seen them, and didn’t want to; he didn’t want to give his nightmares any more shape than they already had. His fingers ached in sympathy.

He jumped when the clock chimed loudly, and smiled when Balfour loudly began to object. Now that was unlike the boy entirely. It seemed that Balfour had grown to fill the space left behind by their rougher and louder friends; being the quietest and shyest airman still made him bolder than any common man. He leaned in the doorway, watching Luvander pout at Balfour and then disappear downstairs to answer the chime at the front door. Ivory hugged himself loosely, looking at the floor, feeling intensely uncomfortable as Laure and Balfour went over the details of the sounds they had apparently been hearing in their heads. He blocked it out as best he could, because what it sounded like was uncomfortably familiar and absolutely, in all ways, impossible. Thankfully, the conversation was interrupted by none other than the infamous Margrave who had caused so much trouble last year.

News of Adamo's arrest made a small icy fist clench in his gut. Ivory, like all of them, had assumed that Adamo was immune to such treatment even though he knew better. He sat with Luvander on the couch while Laure badgered the Margrave and Balfour looked at them, worriedly. Luvander looked exhausted, as if the bad news had sapped his good cheer, though Ivory knew it couldn’t last long. Luvander operated best with someone strong to annoy, and if he absolutely needed to, Ivory would step in as the one to lead their expedition to liberate the chief. That would free up Balfour to fuss and Luvander to flit, though he wondered how to keep these strangers out of what he thought of as airmen-only business. It would be unusual, he thought, but not unpleasant, to have two lookouts and be the only properly destructive one there; he wondered if either swift would be able to bring him back if he lost himself in the fight and went too far. He wondered if they were aware that he occasionally needed someone to hold his leash.

Plans were made quickly. The Margrave fucked off to gather more information and Luvander reopened his shop, leaving Ivory and Balfour to entertain the two young students. Ivory amused himself by giving Toverre a fisheyed stare, one of the very best in his arsenal. For his part, Toverre squirmed and within twenty minutes was polishing Luvander’s silverware out of sheer nerves. Balfour nudged Ivory in disapproval, but couldn’t entirely keep the smile off his face, so Ivory paid him no mind.

The Margrave somehow made it past Luvander to report in- to whom, Ivory could not quite tell, as none of them were anything like a leader- and then he once again flew out into the snowy night for more reconnaissance. They waited, then, sitting like they had between missions once, only there was no piano to practice on here to keep him awake. Ivory found himself inching lower on the couch, his head resting on Balfour’s shoulder and his eyelids dragging downwards.

 

4.

Ivory must have drifted off. He had been playing the piano for Raphael, who was lounging on the couch of Ivory’s Thremedon apartment reading a roman by firelight, and it was peaceful the way it never really had been back at the Airman. He realized, swallowing a lump of hot familiar grief, that it had been a dream as everyone jumped up at once from a noise downstairs. Luvander, having apparently closed up shop downstairs, handed a fireplace poker to Laure and then passed him the third one. Ivory paused and wrestled with the swell of feelings, because Raphael was dead and they were under attack and nothing was ok, but he was able to banish his emotions with iron will and the ease of long practice and stood next to Luvander.

"I wish I would have thought to lock the sitting-room door," Luvander whispered to nobody in particular. "That would have been terribly clever of me." Ivory adjusted his grip on the poker, thinking much the same of his own cleverness in leaving his fighting knives in his apartment just below a false floorboard. Life as a civilian had done a number on him, it seemed.

“This reminds me of whenever Rook came back from the Fans,” Balfour smirked, moving to stand in front of Toverre. Ivory felt an answering grin that had nothing to do with humor and everything to do with the anticipation of violence bloom on his face.

The door slammed open and Laure jumped the gun, whacking none other than Ghislain, who just stared at her with an unimpressed face and shrugged it off. “You see-“ and he said a name that made Ivory’s brain shut down for a moment as it tried to process the enormity of that one tiny word. Luvander tugged and annoyed Ghislain until he moved aside and tackled- someone- it couldn’t possibly be who it was- almost throwing them both down the stairs in his furious affection. Balfour joined in, laughing like a sob, and Ghislain touched Ivory’s shoulder to break him out of his trance.

Ivory stepped forward and yanked Balfour and Luvander off of Raphael, though it was difficult since Luvander was clinging with his long limbs and making things difficult. Raphael helped by stepping closer and hugging Ivory, beating the paler man to the punch. Luvander stopped making offended noises and started making gleeful ones when Ivory grabbed Raphael by the front of his shirt, slammed him against the wall at the stop of the stairs and kissed him with the full force of eight months apart.

Raphael was too thin, too pale, and there were scars down his face- nobody escaped unscathed, Ivory thought dimly in the part of his brain that wasn’t occupied- but his lips were soft and his fingers were pulling the back of Ivory’s shirt, keeping him close, kissing him back like they were the only people in the world and like Ivory might vanish at any minute. He dimly heard the others talking in the other room, the cadence sounding something like Luvander explaining why nobody ought to interrupt them or how many bets had been going on about their relationship or maybe just explaining how a tomato was a fruit. Who knew, with Luvander.

Their kissing slowed from mind-searingly intense to merely bruising, Raphael dragging his lips across Ivory’s and his fingers making his way up to touch the bare skin of his neck above his collar, making Ivory shiver. “I’m sorry,” Raphael murmured, “I must taste like bile.” There was no real apology in it, just deep affection in a shaky and exhausted voice. Ivory pressed his nose into the crook of Raphael’s neck and inhaled deeply, feeling Raphael’s knees shake. “You’re alive,” he pressed the words into Raphael’s neck, almost too quietly to hear.

“Are you two lovebirds quite finished, or shall I prepare the bedroom for guests?” Luvander chirped. Ivory could feel Raphael’s chest moving in a laugh, and he felt Raphael’s hands move down his back as if Ivory was the one who needed comforting. Raphael managed to maneuver them both, without separating them, into the apartment and onto the couch where Ivory held on to Raphael’s hand and absolutely refused to let go. The cat was well and truly out of the bag now, anyway, there was no point in playing coy. He did notice, at one point, Luvander taking a coin from Ghislain and looking far too smug. Ivory just closed his eyes and rested his head on Raphael’s shoulder.

Raphael spun a story for Luvander, Balfour and the guests- a ridiculous, patently untrue but still very entertaining story. Exhausted as he was, Raphael never came so alive as when he was telling a story to a captivated audience, and they did play their part well. Toverre, in particular, was hanging on to every word, staring at Raphael (and, Ivory noticed uncomfortably, at their twined fingers) with a wistful longing. Ghislain interjected with his own version while Luvander chopped vegetables with, Ivory could not help but notice, passable skill. Raphael preened and teased, clearly happy to be home, but he was so thin and frail that Ivory thought he could almost see through him. Never once during the conversation did Raphael let go of his hand.

 

5.

Ivory found himself torn between two great loves that night. Raphael was home, shaking and pale and holding his hand with no regard at all for who would see. His eyes were bright- not fever bright, but he had the look of someone who might get to that point by the end of the night. There were bruises under his eyes and Ivory wanted to bundle him up in every coat he could find, take him home and lock them up so that nobody else could so much as lay their eyes on him until Ivory decided to share.

However, there was violence to be done, and the matter was somewhat urgent. Since none of the airmen had ever let a little thing like a brush with death stop them from facing battle, Ivory did not opt to insult Raphael by suggesting he stay home and miss out on the fun. He watched Luvander fuss with a large fur-lined coat and some boots as he stretched his hands and borrowed a knife from Ghislain, who could be trusted to keep his blades sharp and clean even if the shape was different from Ivory’s own babies, safely tucked away in his flat across Miranda. There was no time to retrieve them, though, so he would have to make do.

Ivory walked with Ghislain through the blizzard because if he walked with Raphael, he’d drag him home instead of letting him participate in this venture and he was sure that Raphael would be cross with him about it, if for no other reason than he wouldn’t get the chance to call Adamo by his first name.

The plan was fairly straightforward. Margrave Royston would lead them to the building that th’Esar was apparently keeping secret prisoners, their own chief sergeant included. From there he would sneak some distance from the doors and cause an explosion, drawing the guards out of the building so that they could sneak in. Ivory would be going with him, ready to set more manual fires and protect Royston from discovery while preventing the guards from returning too soon and catching Ghislain, the swifts and the little civilian ducklings they hadn’t managed to shake off even in the midst of a dangerous mission. Things almost went according to plan. Royston’s Talent for combustion was a beautiful thing to behold, though he didn’t seem very comfortable around Ivory’s appreciative hum as he watched the destruction. He almost seemed, to Ivory’s great amusement, a little bit nervous around him.

They managed to sneak around in the dark, getting away from the soldiers- not, Ivory noticed, wearing black with red piping like the Provost’s wolves, but in a black and bottle green uniform of a similar cut. Royston led him down some quiet suburban streets, circling around until Ivory was lost, anxious and irritable. “Are you sure you know where you’re going,” he hissed, grabbing the man by his ridiculous scarf and pressing his blade into the small of his back just hard enough for Royston to feel the threat. He’d begun to suspect even Royston of treachery, especially as they wound through dark streets and high buildings.

Royston swallowed, putting his hands up in the air. “I believe the building our friends are in is connected to the irrigation system. It’s an underground network of tunnels- one of the worst kept secrets of Thremedon, really, if you consider all the romantic stories that include them. There should be an entrance into those tunnels just two blocks from here.” His voice was high and tense, his breathing heavy. Ivory allowed that a knife pressed to one’s back could inspire that level of panic. He slowly let go and watched Royston brush himself off without shutting up. “I am also keeping Antoinette close enough to hear, which is why we weaved about instead of going directly there. I don’t wish to lose track of her, if it’s all the same to you.” For a moment, Ivory almost regretted letting him talk.

“Lead the way, magician,” Ivory gestured, keeping the knife in his hand plainly visible in case Royston got any ideas about no longer finding Ivory’s company amusing and running off on his own. The blade was given a nervous glance, and then Royston looked at his face with a strange expression- weariness, mixed with fatalism perhaps? It reminded him the tiniest bit of Balfour, that let’s-be-friends optimism under a soldier’s willingness to face death.

“Right this way, airmen,” Royston answered evenly, and took off once more into the night.

They found a door, unassuming and unmarked, set into a brick building that seemed not to attract attention by design. Even Ivory’s eyes had slid over it. Royston stood guard as Ivory knelt and picked the lock, hands sore and stiff and out of practice in the cold night, steam puffing from his mouth as he worked. It took, in Ivory’s estimation, roughly seven fucking years to get the lock picked. His grandmother would have done better. When it was finally sprung, he stood up, knees sore from kneeling and popping audibly like they were reminding him to feel old.

“Once you get down there, try to head north. The water will be flowing away from the palace, and the impromptu prison you wish to find is between here and the palace, so if you go against the water’s flow you should be able to find your friends.” Royston pulled his coat closer to his face, his eyes like bruises in his face.

“Are you not coming with me?”

“My Talent,” Royston confided with a bitter little smile, “Is not something you want confined in an underground tunnel.” Ivory looked carefully at Royston. The man was a Margrave, Ivory knew, and had fought Ke-Han sorcerers up close. It felt strange to doubt his courage now, since Ivory himself would cheerfully bring down all of Thremedon on top of their heads if it meant winning. He shrugged and chalked it up to being one of the many things he didn’t understand about other humans.

“Suit yourself.” Ivory left the Margrave alone in the streets of Charlotte and descended into the bowels of the city.

 

6.

Ivory had walked for what seemed like miles, often losing sight of the channel of water but always discovering it again. At one point, he reached a dead end and had to backtrack and find a bridge spanning the underground channel, with a door on either side. He listened carefully, ignoring the familiar headache and whispers in his head that were so distracting and painful that, at times, he wanted to throw himself into the canal just to shut them up. The headache had gotten worse underground and he hoped this whole awful mess was over with before he lost all his ability to function and had to curl up in a quiet place and wait out the pain.

He heard voices, real ones this time, and he ducked out of sight before they stepped into view. He stayed out of sight as they passed, but it wasn’t soldiers- well, mostly it wasn’t soldiers. Adamo led the way alongside Balfour and a striking dark-haired woman in a courtly gown. Behind them, Ghislain was escorting the ducklings and a blonde soldier in a green uniform, and Luvander and Raphael were bringing up the rear. Though the mission that evening was completely serious, the threat of a migraine was looming over his head and he had never been the most enthusiastic prankster in the corps, Ivory couldn’t resist this perfect setup. He fell neatly into step behind them, far enough back that they didn’t notice him immediately. It wasn’t until the soldier stopped the group to inspect a panel on the wall that he sidled up behind Luvander.

“Are we almost there?” He asked calmly, and tried not to grin when Luvander shrieked like a girl and flailed away from him. What Ivory forgot to take into account was that while he’d had eight months to grow accustomed to Luvander’s behavior, he’d had eight months to forget Raphael’s, so he failed to dodge the reactive punch Raphael threw at him. It was fortunate for his poor jaw that Raphael had all the strength of the little girl Luvander sounded like. He still ended up staggering back a bit and rubbing his jaw, giving Raphael a wounded look.

“How?” Raphael asked, rubbing his knuckles with wide eyes. “How long have you been following us? It can’t have been long, we just left the others..?” There was annoyance in Raphael’s voice, and fatigue, and Ivory tasted blood from where his teeth had cut his lip. He wanted to push Raphael up against the wall and kiss him hard, share the taste with him, but he ruthlessly suppressed that desire in light of present company.

Adamo frowned over at them, but the look he gave Ivory was faintly surprised and perhaps a bit approving. “Glad you could join us. I’d also like to know how the hell you got in here.” Adamo’s arms crossed over his chest and he adopted the stance he’d had, once, while demanding a report. Ivory gave him an insolent stare, since they were no longer airmen and the implied obligation to report for duty made him want to set things on fire again.

“Royston found me a side door into the underground canals.” He tested the edge of his blade against the pad of his thumb with the most unconcerned look he could arrange his face to present. “You lot are so fucking loud, it was easy to find you.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily.

“You’re going to kill me,” Luvander said faintly, a hand still on his chest above his heart. “You’re going to be the actual death of me.” Ivory glanced at him and winked.

“One can only hope,” he murmured affectionately.

Things went to hell very soon after that. The blonde soldier talked about someone named Cornflower, and Luvander kept shaking his head as if the name baffled him. Ivory was frustratingly aware of his own ignorance on the topic, and he glanced at Raphael with an eyebrow raised- a trick he’d learned from Jeannot, once, after winning a bet with the man. Raphael noticed, alright, and bit his lower lip, staring straight ahead rather than catch Ivory up on what he’d missed. Luvander, who was not above petty revenge, kept quiet on the subject as well. It was therefore a complete surprise to Ivory when the dragons appeared.

Antoinette had fled with Balfour to plead their case to th’Esarina, and Adamo had them making a stand against the soldiers that ran through the tunnels to meet them. The leader of the soldiers- whose name was, apparently, Troius- had made Adamo some kind of offer involving dragons that made little sense to Ivory, but made his blood pound behind his ears and his breath come faster. When Ghislain broke the little shit’s nose, something underground shifted and Ivory could feel it in his head, a screaming rage that echoed in his own mind without words. It was similar in some ways to how he and Cassiopeia had connected, losing words and flowing together to become a team of destructive force that needed no rational thought, only prey. At the same time, it was utterly alien and wrenched his gut hard enough to bring him to his knees clutching his head.

The ground exploded between them and a dragon in miniature crawled from the abyss of hell to destroy them. At least, that was Ivory’s first thought. She was different, more canine in appearance than the girls he was used to with metallic plumage like an exotic bird. She was beautiful and furious and Ivory loved and hated her immediately with a heartbreaking despair.

Raphael’s arms were under his own, pulling him up and holding him when the second dragon appeared. Ivory leaned heavily on him, unable to draw his eyes away as a second dragon crawled up from the ground and faced the first. They clashed together, screaming their fury between his comrades and the group of soldiers. Ivory’s knees were weak, his head a mess of pain and echoes, and Raphael’s arm slung across his chest was like an anchor to reality. Adamo crowded them backwards with his arm flung out, keeping them out of reach of the sharp slashing tails, and when they started spitting fire Ivory wanted to run into it as if it would cleanse him.

 “Oh,” Raphael breathed even as he pulled Ivory back from the flames. “Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” His voice was reverent. Ivory clutched Raphael’s hand, agreeing. To say that he missed Cassiopeia would be a grievous injustice; tonight, throbbing headache and all, was the first time he felt alive since that final fateful battle. Ironic, considering how sure he was that they would die here.

There were taunts thrown across the battlefield as Cornflower and Ironjaw tried their best to tear each other apart, but Ivory was losing his focus to another wave of pain that started between his eyes and dripped like acid down his limbs until he wanted to scream from the agony. Laure went down with him, this time, kneeling in pain as a third dragon crawled up into their tunnel and faced them. Ivory thought, as he slipped down to his knees, that it was like hearing their voices from underwater- they were there, familiar in tone, but he couldn’t make out any words. It had always been that way, with the dragons; he’d always known that his migraines were linked to the magic that made them, even if he had never found out whether it was the dragons that made the headaches worse or the chemistry in his head that made him susceptible to their whispers. He was halfway tuned in to whatever frequency they were using to shout at each other and at their respective humans, and it was maddening.

He was only halfway conscious for the rest of the battle. The third dragon, a beautiful patchwork of metals that wrenched his heart, helped take down Ironjaw. There was a fourth dragon that barreled past them, skeletal wings eerie in the dim firelight of the tunnels, and Ivory was so past feeling anything but pain that he barely registered that she was headed towards the palace.

 

7.

One of the fringe benefits to getting your head mucked with by a _velikaia_ of Lady Antoinette’s skill was that his head actually felt much better after. Also, it was better than dying, so though the thought of being limited in what he could discuss was infuriating, he couldn’t get too angry at the lady who did the actual mucking.

Ivory had vacillated between a headache that was merely blinding and a headache that was blinding and made him feel like he was on fire for hours after the mess with the dragons. He dimly remembered seeing Balfour crouched over th’Esar, followed by a meeting with th’Esarina and the lady Antoinette. They had come to an agreement regarding the dragons and how to keep them alive, and while there was still a bit of stubborn resistance in him in regards to taking orders from Adamo, Ivory could distract himself away from that tangled mess of emotions now that he had Raphael back. There had been a _hilarious_ moment when Ghislain suggested Raphael stay in the countryside, but thankfully Ghislain had been spared a clumsy and exhausted evisceration by Raphael quietly pressing his mouth to Ivory’s neck, just under his ear, and asking if he could perhaps stay in the city instead.

It would have been simply rude to say no.

So Ivory found himself bringing Raphael home to his flat, unlocking the door and pulling Raphael in with a hand on the small of his back, both of them filthy and exhausted and unable to let go of each other for even a second. They didn’t need to turn on any lights, the moonlight filtering in through windows and providing enough blue light for them to find their way to the shower, then to bed. The following day, they somehow managed to meet Luvander for lunch- brioche buns and several pots of tea, and Ivory was proud of himself for managing to eat half of his bun without being sick, though he did promise himself that if it came down to it he could always aim for Luvander’s shoes.

They took a carriage together to the palace, and Ivory spent the ride with his head buried unashamedly in Raphael’s chest, breathing more evenly with clever fingers massaging his scalp. He might have kept their intimacy secret, once upon a time, but it was only Luvander and Ghislain there to see it and since they’d already seen too much to be allowed to live anyway, Ivory completely failed to give a fuck and let himself melt into Raphael’s hands.

The visit was over much sooner than any of them expected. Luvander and Raphael had jokingly reminisced about previous times they’d been called to visit th’Esar, but if there was one thing to encourage Ivory’s support of the new feminine regime, it was that things got done quickly and efficiently. While Ivory was taking his turn in Antoinette’s tidy and surprisingly small office, they discussed, without speaking out loud, the triggers to his headaches- one of which was the dragons themselves. She promised to look into it for him. In the meantime, the dragons were far enough away now that his headache really was just residual and he could live in Thremedon with one less trigger.

The loss of physical pain all at once was staggering in its sharp discrepancy from the normal state of things, and it did nothing to ease the twist in his heart from memories drudged up from the abyss he had, until last night, successfully banished them to. With one night, his entire life had been merrily fucked. Raphael was home and Ghislain was staying around, but the rest of his friends were dead. The dragons were real once more, but Cassiopeia was still beyond his reach.

Ivory tried to convince himself that things had worked out alright. If he told himself that every day, he might start to believe it.

 

EPILOGUE

Raphael was meant to rest in bed and eat a lot of food until he had recovered his strength, according to the physician he saw, Ghislain, and anyone else who cared to pretend to be his mother. The problem was, there was too much to see and reacquaint himself with. How could anyone stay in bed when Thremedon thrived?

Raphael spent several days exploring the Rue d’St. Difference and all the shops that had sprung up in his absence. The third day in a row, however, that he found himself in Luvander’s shop by midafternoon, nodding off into his tea despite intentions of heading right back up after a bracing rest, Luvander had very firmly told him not to make any more all-day plans without accounting for his diminished energy. He claimed that the frequent long visits were causing all of Thremedon to suspect them of having a Big Cindy Affair. Raphael smirked, told him that he should be so lucky, but sadly (for Luvander’s shopgirl, that is, who was trying to pretend she hadn’t overheard but couldn’t quite disguise a gleeful smile) their banter was interrupted when Ivory stepped in to collect him. Ivory was dressed to kill- not literally, as there was a sad lack of epaulettes and dragon smoke around these days, but Raphael thought he might die when he thought about Ivory’s dastardly clever fingers tying the fancy knot around his neck and doing all the buttons on his fine shirt. Many things about Ivory tended to have that effect on him.

Another day was spent exploring and inspecting the statues. He had of course seen them en route to Yesfir on that fateful night, but Ghislain hadn’t let him get a very good look. The statues were amusing, in a way; each airman had a noble and chiseled beauty that not one of them had actually possessed in real life. The name plaques under each statue were difficult to deal with, somehow (and he had grand plans to sneak out with Luvander, Ghislain and a chisel to correct some of the more egregious errors) so he focused on the marble faces. It amazed him that he could see the future stretching out before him, that these statues would inspire romans. Entire generations would grow up fed on stories of him and Natalia, and the rest of the heroic dragon corps who doubtless acted nobly and chivalrously all the time. Raphael tried not to grin too widely, looking up at Magoghin’s uncharacteristically stern face, as he thought it might reveal how mad he was.

Perhaps when he came out with the chisel, he could add in some personal touches to the statues- laugh lines, moles, and the small curving scars that gave each of them such personality. The Volstovic stonemasons were undoubtedly talented but they had left too many stories untold. He wished, just a little bit, that Thom was still around with his ridiculous notes. Dealing with that hot mess would be worth it for the nostalgia.

About a week after The Event, Luvander convinced him to drag Ivory uptown to Balfour’s tiny little hole in the wall apartment to help him pack and move since, apparently, Ivory was finally on speaking terms with Balfour again (and Raphael had a few things to say about that, once he figured out how to chastise Ivory for spending the better part of a year in silence without feeling like a horse’s ass about chastising Ivory over anything). He let Ivory pack some boxes while he took the opportunity to thoroughly snoop through Balfour’s belongings, ignoring Luvander who called out that he’d already done that. It didn’t escape his notice that one of Balfour’s chairs had once sat in front of a piano in another building, and by the way Ivory caressed the seat it didn’t escape him either.

As he kept himself busy in the top shelves of the kitchen, he kept an ear out for conversation in the common room. When he heard Ivory and Balfour exchange a few words like civilized people should, without any encouragement even, he realized that he’d been carrying some tension about the two of them. With them sending Balfour and Adamo off into countryside exile, he didn’t want any bad blood preventing him from dragging his boyfriend and best friend out to see them as often as he could manage it- knowing Ivory, he would try to make things difficult on principle, and knowing how easily distracted Raphael himself was, the burden to make regular visits would fall to Luvander and then only the gods could help any of them.

Raphael, as easily distracted as ever, forgot about worrying about Ivory and Balfour’s tenuous rekindling relationship in favor of a much more immediate betrayal. “Balfour,” he began, “None of these cups match!”


End file.
